


Kindred Spirit

by Badwolf36



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Nogitsune Trauma, Post-Episode: s03e24 The Divine Move
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 05:58:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1499213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badwolf36/pseuds/Badwolf36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I was possessed by an evil Japanese fox spirit that used my body to kill people. You’re the only person I know who could understand something like that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kindred Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in that nebulous period in "The Divine Move" between everything going down with the Nogitsune and everyone recovering after. I was trying to think of who Stiles could relate to after his experience. This was the result. Please comment if you enjoy. Thanks for reading!

**Title:** Kindred Spirit  
 **Fandom:** Teen Wolf  
 **Characters:** Stiles Stilinski and Jackson Whittemore  
 **Word count:** 2,804  
 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Teen Wolf or any related properties.  
 **Warnings:** Set toward the end of "The Divine Move."

*******************

 

Life in London is…quiet.

Well, quiet compared to Beacon Hills.

Derek Hale’s “Accelerated Werewolf Training (How Not To Murder Anyone)” had been brutal, but effective. He stays in his locked room during full moons, eschewing partying for trying to read a book without puncturing the pages every time he has to turn one with his claws. The Whittemores are protective and don’t let him go out much anyways, but he can’t really blame them for it after he pretty much died on the Beacon Hills High School lacrosse field.

Speaking of Beacon Hills, Jackson gets various tidbits on the cast of his old life from Danny when they Skype every week.

Danny tells him about his hot new boyfriend, Ethan, and how bad he feels when he mixes him up with his twin. Jackson hears about how Lydia is dating said twin, Aiden.

Danny also tells him about trips to creepy motels and all about the strange murders and disappearances that have plagued the town recently.

Jackson hears about how Stiles Stilinski keeps going missing and Isaac Lahey is in the hospital after being electrocuted and how Coach Finstock got shot with a freaking arrow in the middle of cross country practice.

One night, somewhere in the middle of that, Danny asks him about werewolves and Jackson’s eyes flash blue in astonishment before he can rein in the reaction. Danny doesn’t really look shocked even, just laughs and makes a joke about werewolves in London that Jackson had heard about 300 times from Stilinski and McCall before he left. And then Danny says that he’s pretty sure Ethan and Aiden are werewolves, and possibly McCall and Hale and some others they know.

Jackson thinks about lying for a moment, because Derek had been very specific (violently specific) about the whole secrecy thing when it came to the supernatural, but he’s known Danny for far too long. Danny is a lover of secrets, as long as he’s the one holding them. (It had been what started his fledging hacking career after all.) So he tells him everything he knows, and then swears him to secrecy. Danny smiles, holding up his pinky finger to the webcam and crooking it.

“Pinky swear,” he says, like when they were kids, and refuses to sign off until Jackson does the same.

It’s because of the weekly calls with Danny that he hears about Allison Argent’s death. The story about carjackers with masks rings a little false, but it’s the only one Danny knows.

He thinks about calling Lydia, because for all that he sometimes has the emotional maturity of a rock (an assessment from Lydia after he didn’t cry at “The Notebook” the first time; he’d learned to fake it for all subsequent viewings), he knows that Allison was her best friend. But he hasn’t talked to her since he left, and he’s not really sure now is the right time to try to bridge that gap between them. He thinks about talking to a few of the others, Derek, maybe, or even Scott, but he doesn’t.

So it’s a bit of surprise when he’s got his Skype window open on his laptop at his desk one Saturday afternoon while he’s working on homework and he gets a request from Stiles Stilinski that says “Hello Jackson Whittemore, I'd like to add you as a contact.” In addition to the standard request, there’s a blank line and then a single word: “Please.”

He accepts the request because he’s curious and he’s sick of trying to figure out how to conjugate verbs in French. He’s also done the time conversion math (it’s an eight-hour difference), and Stiles is calling him at 4:30 in the morning California time.

The call request comes through about 10 seconds later, and he accepts that, too. The view settles onto a poorly-lit figure in the center of the webcam’s frame. The figure is slumped against the knickknack-filled wooden headboard behind it, and the rest of the picture is taken up by the blue painted back wall, which is covered in red yarn and way too many small photographs and printed pages.

When Jackson examines the figure, it takes him a long moment to match up the pale, hollow-eyed guy on his screen with the spastic kid he used to torture and then sort of trust. He’s wearing a shapeless, gray, long-sleeved T-shirt and is draped in a dark blue plaid blanket that does nothing but highlight how sallow his skin is.

“You look like shit, Stilinski,” Jackson says.

Stiles laughs, the sound coming out more like a wracking cough than amusement. It jiggles the picture a little, leading Jackson to the conclusion that Stiles’ laptop is balanced on his knees.

“I’m so glad I can always count on you to be a douchebag, Jackson. Your constancy is a comfort.”

“Why are you calling?”

Stiles bites his lip.

“Did you hear about Allison?”

Jackson swallows hard. It had hurt when Danny had told him about it, but he has a feeling Stiles knows the true story behind what happened to the cool, feisty chick he used to know.

“Yeah. What really happened?”

This time, Stiles is the one to swallow hard.

“She got stabbed. Something called an Oni. I…I wasn’t there. Scott was. He was with her when…he was with her.”

“I’m sorry.” Jackson finds that he means it. He really is sorry that he will never get to see Allison again. They hadn’t stayed in touch after he left, but he thinks they could have at least started messaging one another on Facebook at one point, and now that possibility is gone.

“Her dad and Isaac left,” Stiles continues. “After the funeral. France. We’re not sure if they’re coming back. She and Isaac were dating. At the end.”

“Ah.”

Stiles’ right hand comes up and scratches at his neck, his nails leaving thick red lines in their wake. He stares off at some point in the distance, leaving nothing but static to come over Jackson’s speakers as Stiles’ microphone port rubs up against his blankets.

“Why are you calling me?”

Stiles startles, flinching hard enough that he has to readjust the laptop before he can answer.

“I…uh…you…”

“Spit it out,” Jackson says, not unkindly. Not particularly patiently either, but not unkindly.

Stiles takes a deep breath, then another. And another.

Jackson’s claws spike up at the same time as his anger, and he opens his mouth to start ripping into the other guy when Stiles rushes out “I was possessed by an evil Japanese fox spirit that used my body to kill people. You’re the only person I know who could understand something like that.”

Jackson leans back heavily in his chair, the motion causing the wheels to roll a little bit.

He…really hadn’t been expecting that. It does explain a few things though. Like why Stiles looks like he’s been chewed, digested and puked up, for one. But there’s still a few points missing.

“Gone now?”

“Trapped. Hopefully never ever coming back.”

“It killed people?”

Here, Stiles pauses. Jackson gets the feeling it’s more to let Stiles brace himself than for any need to collect his thoughts.

“A lot of people.”

“Do you remember being possessed?”

Whatever color had been visible in Stiles’ face drains away.

“Got it,” Jackson says. He’s processing things pretty quickly (and who’d have thought there would come a day when ‘evil Japanese fox spirit’ was something he just processed), but he’s not sure there’s a right answer he can give here.

He settles on the truth.

“I don’t really remember what those freaks had me do.”

Stiles’ expression falls, disappointment evident in the immediate slump of his shoulders.

“I knew that,” he says. And the thing of it is, Jackson knows Stiles isn’t lying because Stiles had been there (as part of Derek’s training for Jackson about the importance of scent) for a lot of conversations that involved the words “Kanima,” “Matt,” “Argent,” “controlled” and “anchor.” But he’s pretty sure Stiles is so freaked out right now that he completely forgot all of those conversations.

Jackson hesitates. It’s only the utter dejection (almost despair) he sees that prompts him to offer, “I still have nightmares. And sometimes I don’t sleep because I’m not sure I’ll wake up as myself.”

That earns him a weak, sickly smile before Stiles’ expression falls again.

“How do you deal with it? Do you feel guilty? God, what that thing did…”

“I’m pretty sure the rest of the losers you call friends have probably already told you it’s not your fault.”

Stiles looks straight at the webcam, and it isn’t until then that Jackson realizes Stiles hasn’t done that for the entire conversation. Instead, he’s looked off to the side or slightly to the left of him.

“Yeah.”

“And I’m sure it hasn’t meant a damn thing because people are dead.”

Stiles looks up, gaze open and shattered. Jackson sighs.

“That doesn’t change, Stiles. It still sucks.” His eyes flash blue for a moment before he pulls the reaction back. “Innocent people are dead at your hands, whether you were the one in control or not.”

Stiles nods slowly.

“Did you want anyone to die?”

“No!”

“Then that puts you a step above the sick freak that really did the killing.”

“You don’t understand,” Stiles protests, and he sounds pretty broken up over that fact. “I had the chance to stop it, to keep it from taking over my body again.”

Jackson levels an even look at him. He doesn’t like being told he doesn’t understand things, even if he’s less likely to lash out about it now.

“So why didn’t you?”

Surprisingly, that seems to knock Stiles for a loop.

“This girl, Malia, he was going to, it was using someone to, there was a drill and he was gonna…going to…”

Stiles can’t really seem to complete his explanation, so Jackson waves a hand at his screen to get him to stop trying.

“So you gave in to the evil fox thing, and seriously, Beacon Hills,” Stiles nods at this, obviously in complete agreement, “to save some chick from getting killed.”

“But if I hadn’t done that, so many more people would be alive.”

“But this, Maria?”

“Malia. She’s a werecoyote,” Stiles adds and Jackson whistles through his teeth.

“Seriously, that freaking town. Anyways, this Malia would be dead then, right? And that thing would have found some other way to get you to give in. Assholes like that, they don’t give up.”

Jackson watches as Stiles reaches up and scrubs at his hair in frustration before setting his hand back down out of sight.

“I never thought I’d say this, but you’re right, Jackson.”

“Suck it, Stilinski.” Stiles’ face twists oddly at that. “What?”

“They…uh…they had the Nogitsune, that’s what it was called, trapped at the McCall’s place at one point. Deaton gave me, um, it, Kanima venom at one point. Yours, I’m assuming. Like, just poured it down my throat. Its throat. God, that’s confusing. So, I sort of did suck it.”

Jackson feels his face twist, and the expression must be pretty comical because Stiles snorts out a dry-sounding laugh. It sounds like Stiles hasn’t laughed in a very long time.

“Shut the hell up!” Jackson snaps, although he has a feeling he doesn’t sound nearly as annoyed as he means to. Jackson is blaming his lack of vitriol (his vocabulary has grown with all of his enforced reading time during full moons) on how pitiful the other guy looks right now. Stiles start laughing again, and keeps going this time until tears are streaming down his cheeks.

Jackson considers killing the Skype window, but he thinks of Allison, and Lydia, and the rest of the morons he left behind in Beacon Hills. They were some weird sort of pack (and oh, Derek had refused to shut up about that) and packs looked after their own. So he waits, tapping the claws of his right hand against the wood of his desk until Stiles starts wiping at his eyes with his fingers as his laughter dies off.

“Jackson?” he says.

Jackson rolls his eyes (it had taken Stiles a long time to stop laughing) before responding, “Yeah, what?”

“Thanks,” Stiles says, eyes suspiciously bright like he might start crying for real.

“Don’t mention it,” Jackson says. “Seriously, don’t mention it. If I ever come back there, I don’t want my reputation all messed up.”

“As if you had a reputation as anything other than a giant dick.” Stiles yawns, pulling the blanket over his shoulders a little bit closer around him. “I think I might try to get an hour or two of sleep.”

Jackson scratches at the back of his neck, hesitating before he offers “If you need to call me again, you can.”

Stiles looks up, surprised.

“Uh…yeah. Thanks. Uh. Really, thanks.”

“But if mess up the time difference and call me at 2 in the morning, I may be forced to fly back there just to kick your ass.” Stiles snorts. “And make sure you and McCall and Danny win the lacrosse championship. I’ll be pissed if I hear you broke our championship streak.”

Stiles snorts again before he says “Who do you think scored the winning goal for that championship, asshole?”

“Yeah, well, don’t get cocky.”

Jackson smirks at his webcam, and Stiles smirks back.

“Seriously, get some sleep, Stilinski. You look like something Lydia’s dog threw up.”

Stiles is the one who hesitates this time, face going abruptly serious.

“You should call her. Lydia. She’s…uh…a banshee now. And Scott’s a True Alpha and Derek’s not the alpha anymore, but that’s beside the point, and yeah, Lydia. Banshee. She screams when someone dies. I mean, that’s not just it, it’s more hearing things, but she screams and she finds dead bodies.”

Jackson feels his eyebrows shoot for his hairline not only at that pronouncement, but also at the fact that Stiles, who has had a crush on Lydia the entire time he’s known him, is encouraging him to call her. He almost thinks to ask about the whole Scott and Derek thing as well (Derek had apparently only gone for the basics in Werewolf 101, that asshole), but Lydia came first.

“A banshee? Seriously?”

Stiles just shrugs. The image of him freezes on Jackson’s screen for a moment (best Wi-Fi connection money could buy and it still lagged) before it abruptly jumps to show Stiles leaning toward his webcam.

“Allison was her best friend. And she and Aiden were…well, he was a murderer and a real dick, but she still lost him. It’d mean something to her if you called.”

Jackson finds himself nodding before he’s really thought about it and he sort of wants to take it back (What can he say to her? What words could he possibly say that would make Lydia smile for him like she used to?), but Stiles collapses back against his headboard like he’s accomplished something, so Jackson lets it go.

“So…sleep. Right. Yes.” Stiles holds his fingers up in front of the webcam, and Jackson hears a muttered count to ten before Stiles puts them down again. “Okay, wow. I totally just had a mostly civil conversation with you. I’d say I was in the Twilight Zone, but I think this town might have been the inspiration for that show. Maybe Rod Serling did research here. Oooh, maybe Rod Serling was a werewolf. Or an emissary. Or something cool. ‘Cause seriously, I’m thinking I could probably just pop ‘were-’ in front of something and it would be a thing. Werehedgehog. Werecat. Werehamster.”

“I’m hanging up now, Stilinski!”

Stiles smiles at him, obviously starting to shift down under his covers if the jiggling of the picture is any indication.

“Good night, American werewolf in London.”

“It’s afternoon here. Seriously, if you call me and screw up the time change…” Jackson starts to threaten, but the connection cuts off before he can come up with something suitably vicious.

Jackson leans back in his desk chair, staring at his computer screen and the contacts list there. Danny is at the top of the list of course. Lydia’s on there, too.

He looks at her little avatar picture, one of her and Allison, and snatches his phone from its spot to the right of his laptop. He sets a calendar event for eight hours later (which will make it afternoon in Beacon Hills) and labels it “Lydia.” He still doesn’t know what to say, but, after seeing the slightly less tense set of Stiles’ shoulders after their conversation, he figures it can’t hurt to try.

That accomplished, he sets his phone back down, and pulls his textbook closer to try to figure out just why French grammar sucks as hard as it does.

 


End file.
